Gail's Sunday
by thejollyape
Summary: Pensive fluff.
1. Gail's Sunday

I don't know what she's reading, but she does it intently. Her eyes keep jumping between the pages of the book on her desk and the screen. Every now and then she stops, stares at nothing before typing. She's not one of those aggressive typers, her fingers dance swiftly across the keyboard, but they seem surprisingly gentle. Nothing like the punishing I usually rain down whenever I'm stuck typing up a report. This is more piano like and actually plays a nice calming soundtrack to go with whatever the music she put on the stereo is.

Unable to make them look away my eyes stay on her. She's beautiful and not just beautiful, she's attractive. She's attractive to me. Looking at her, allowing myself to linger on her lips, her focused eyes, her hands, and seeing it all my body responds. It's weird to acknowledge it, to feel it even. No, it doesn't feel weird, it feels good, but thinking about it feels weird. I want her. I want that woman sitting only a couple of steps away. I want to feel her, touch her and taste her. What's even more amazing is that I've done all of those things, but I want to do it again. And again.

I shift a little, propping up the pillow behind my head and reaching for the cup of tea she left for me on the lump of polished wood that worked as a coffee table. She really was a weird one. Kicking my feet around a little I try to get them fully cocooned in the blanket slung across them, trying to warm myself up.

"Leather couches suck," I tell her.

"Only in summer when you're really sweaty or naked," she replies without even looking up at me. I frown and shift a little uncomfortably, but decide to let it go.

"It's cold," I complain with a pout.

"Patience," she chides, still not looking at me, my pout grows. "It'll warm up."

Realising I'm not going to get her attention I huff a little into the steaming cup, letting the warm herbal tea wash down my throat as I take a sip, warming me up from the inside.

Now she's biting her lip, the lower one. Worrying it between her teeth and narrows her eyes. I recognise that look, soon she'll take off her glasses for a second and then put them back on again. It's her "thinking things through" gesture, it shows up whenever something doesn't fit for her, when she re-analyses and rethinks. God, she's attractive. I exhale slowly into my cup.

Suddenly she starts smiling and now it's my turn to narrow my eyes. I swear sometimes she knows what I'm thinking and it's more than a little freaky. But maybe this wasn't one of those times, because she eagerly flips through her book and then the smile grows even bigger. She must have worked out whatever it was that was bothering her.

It's infectious, her joy, and I can't help smiling myself. I arch my back and look away from her for a moment, staring up at the ceiling as I'm trying to contain the smile on my lips. The white paint stares back at me in silence and I notice a small hole off to one corner, wondering about the story behind it. If it was there when she moved in or if she's the cause behind it.

It took me a while to start appreciating Holly's apartment, but now I feel like it grows on me each time I'm here. It's a studio, no walls, no doors, just one giant room full of all the crap that makes up Holly and a small kitchen off to one side. It took some getting used to, because I'm pretty sure a house is not a home without doors. But this fits her. The old bed with the wooden bedposts, the one corner that works as an office, the mismatching and assymetrical shelves covering most walls, the racks of clothes and the shoes littering the floor, the beaten and worn couch just sitting there in the middle of it all as some kind residing house god. What I'd hated at first was the lack of privacy, but now…I don't know, but I do know that I liked laying wrapped up on the couch watching her work.

"You know what, Holly?" I ask rhetorically.

She hums a noncommittal.

"I really like Sundays."


	2. more Sundays than one

_a/n: There are more Sundays than one. Had to get this one out of my system. So adding it to the previous one. More pointless pensive fluff._

* * *

I can smell coffee and hear...nothing. There are no slamming doors, no buzzing from the bathroom as Chris shaves for the third time that morning, no high pitched comments from Chloe that pierce the walls like shrapnel, no intrusive videogame sounds, no cartoon explosions, no playing stereoes, no musky cheap spray deodorant moving through the apartment like morning fog, no fried egg smell lingering and waking me up to nausea.

The smell of coffee, that's all there is. Maybe I can hear the traffic in the distance, but that could as easily be my imagination. I don't know how many times I've woken up to this calm and I'm still not used to Sundays being this...this...good.

Slowly I open my eyes, one at a time. I don't want to visually shock myself into wakefulness, it needs to happen gradually. Dusky light peers in through the windows, a few lamps lit to create a warmer and brighter but still easy on newly opened eyes shine. I know it's early, but not early enough for it still to be this dark so I assume it's raining outside. Maybe that's what I was hearing, the rain not the traffic. And where I am suddenly feels ten times more enjoyable. Especially as I spot Holly curled up in that ugly brown armchair she refuses to get rid off, the one that looks like the love child of a burlap sack and a potato. Personally I think it feels like one too, but she loves it. I smile and rub my ear against the pillow under my head a little. Having a hard time deciding what I like best, the scents lingering in the pillowcase or the picture of her folded up like a little kid lost in her reading.

I pull the comforter closer around me, not wanting any of my body heat to escape out into the room. Going to bed wearing nothing always seems like a good idea, but waking up naked never is during winter. Even if I'm mostly warm and content I shiver a little as a memory of last night rush through me, my smile gets bigger.

"Hey, nerd, what are you reading?" I call out to her, my voice still a little hoarse from sleep.

Confused she looks up, blinks a few times and I can tell she's undecided if she should be annoyed at being ripped from whatever world she was in just now. The indecision falls away into a lop-sided smile. "So you're finally awake?"

"No," I reply and close my eyes again. I keep them closed, but I can't fight the grin on my face. It's almost so wide it aches as I strain to hear what she's doing. I can tell she put the book down and I hear her shuffling feet, those frayed sheepskin slippers of hers loud against the hardwood floor, but I'm not sure which direction she's moving in. I curse the weird acoustics of her hippie heaven of an apartment. I really have to fight myself not to open up my eyes again to find out where she went. Then the sound stops and I'm biting my lip to keep my self-discipline disciplined. Seconds tick away and it gets harder and harder not to-

And just as I'm about to open my eyes she pounces on me and I can't help scream out loudly in surprise. Opening my eyes with a frown I glare at her, like a huge cat she sits across my chest and wears a grin that can only be described as wicked. To make matters worse her hands are placed on either side of my body, on top of the comforter. She shifts a little so that she's straddling my waist, but keeps her hands in place and I'm now completely trapped under her.

I wriggle about a little, trying to free myself of the prison she's created for me. She just smiles and moves with me, pushing down against my stomach, causing my nostrils to automatically flare.

"Don't call me nerd," she warns me.

"What you gonna do about it?" I retort my voice still hoarse but no longer from sleep, feeling like I've not got the upper hand as I managed to free one of mine, snaking it out from under the sheets.

I'm not quick enough and she drops her previous grip and grabs hold of both my wrists.

"Unbelievably wicked things," she grins at me and push her body down against mine again. It reevaluates my views on the comforter and I realise it's more of a hinder rather than a help to keep warm.

She pulls back a little and I groan in disappointment, but it passes as she looks down at me with that look in her eyes that makes me really fucking love Sundays.


End file.
